


Death Wishes and Dead Men Walking

by Nerd_of_Camelot



Series: -A's Prompt Fills [3]
Category: Marble Hornets
Genre: Brian perpetuated it, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Fluff and Angst, Prompt Fill, Tim uses crude humor as a coping skill, canon compliant (sort of), rated for literally one f-bomb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 14:39:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12914004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nerd_of_Camelot/pseuds/Nerd_of_Camelot
Summary: For the prompt: "could i request umm that one coffin-prompts prompt that goes like "i'll go first, i have a death wish" with like tim and jay? could be fluffy or angsty idc but yeah"Tim probably still doesn't know what to think.





	Death Wishes and Dead Men Walking

_“I’ll go first, I have a death wish.”_

The first time Tim said it, Jay nearly had a heart attack. He felt his stomach drop into his shoes when the words left Tim’s mouth, and his mind spun.

His first thought was, _Why would he say that?_

And the second was, _That’s not healthy._

He didn’t get a chance to comment on it or argue, though, because Tim was already walking a few feet ahead of him and he didn’t have the energy to run and catch up. He especially didn’t have the energy to fight him on something like this. It wasn’t worth the effort.

Some smaller, quieter part of Jay’s mind grumbled, rather crossly, that it also wasn’t worth getting punched in the face over. He agreed with no less irritation.

He let the subject drop without a word, and Tim didn’t bring it up either.

 

Less than a week later, Tim again said, “I’ll go first, I have a death wish,” before they headed off to do something, and this time Jay didn’t manage to stop himself from saying, “Tim, what the _fuck_.”

But Tim, somehow, didn’t really seem to be concerned about it. He just shrugged noncommittally and said, “Inside joke I had with Brian.”

At the mention of Brian, Jay dropped the subject because he saw the twinge of pain pass through Tim’s whole form. He didn’t pursue the matter in any form for a while, and Tim didn’t say it again. They existed in a quiet arrangement that was simply bursting with things they didn’t talk about. Most of the time, Jay thought that was pretty okay.

After all, there were a lot of things better left unsaid.

 

It was nearly six months later that they were again in a situation worthy of the saying. Trying to decide who should go first into this new area for the investigation. Trying to decide who would, probably, take the brunt of any kind of ambush.

Finally, after almost fifteen minutes of them quietly mulling it over, Tim said, “I’ll go first,” paused, and then continued with a very weak attempt at a smile, “I have a death wish.”

This time, Jay didn’t say anything about it. He just returned the attempted smile and stepped a little closer. “Like you’d let anything kill you.” He chuckled, “You’re too stubborn.”

Tim’s expression had brightened considerably at that. Obviously it wasn’t the answer he’d expected, but he wasn’t in any way complaining about it. Instead, he grinned at him, chuckled, and said, “Maybe you’re right.”

From then on, it was a running gag. Every single time they went somewhere, without fail, that would be the first sentence out of Tim’s mouth if Jay hesitated to go first. Jay’s responses varied wildly depending on the day, ranging from the lightheartedly disbelieving tone of his first response to the amused yet sarcastic tone behind, “Okay, Edgelord.”

It was just something they did.

On a good day between them, Tim noted that he hadn’t expected Jay to pick it up so quickly. Hadn’t expected him to know what to do.

When Jay questioned him on that, Tim just shrugged and told him that Brian always did exactly the same thing that he did. He always came up with something to say in reply, and it was always something different.

The crude humor helped Tim cope and Brian, understanding that on some level due to the fact that he was majoring in psychology at the time, went along with it and tried to make light of it. On some days he just couldn’t be as peppy as he wanted to and everything sounded sarcastic, but Tim thought that made it even better.

“You manage it almost as well as he did. It’s…” He hesitated, then seemed to make a decision and continued, “It’s nice. I kind of missed it.”

Jay gave him a smile in reply, more than happy to have done something nice for Tim when he’d done so many honestly horrible things where the poor guy was involved. He wanted to make up for it. He guessed this was a good start.

 

He was far too aware of the fact that he was bleeding out, and far too aware of the fact that he should, reasonably, still be panicking.

But he wasn’t.

He’d stopped panicking a while ago, actually. He’d grown numb, emotionally. Physically was a different story, of course, but that was to be expected. He’d been shot. Alex had shot him. He was dying. Bleeding out in a dirty old building and he knew that there would be no one to help him. No one was going to come save him.

He was going to die.

And the whole time he laid there, Tim’s voice rang in his head. _“I’ll go first, I have a death wish.”_

As his vision finally went black around the edges, the emotional numbness broke just a bit. He found some scrap of amusement left in his exhausted mind. He mustered what little strength his dying body had left.

And he laughed.

He laughed and said, “Looks like I beat you to it.”

 

His mind is foggy. It has been ever since he woke up. But at the same time it is clear. He doesn’t ponder the contradiction - his life is contradiction. A dead man walking. A bluebird with no wings. A living being with no soul. No heart. Only a mind that can’t decide whether it is muddy or crystal and a body that does nothing but ache when he sits still and sing with joy when he moves.

He feels moisture on his face. That’s normal. It always gets a little humid behind his mask when he wears it for too long. What’s not normal is that he knows the moisture isn’t just condensation. He knows it isn’t simply a side effect of his breathing into the plastic for hours on end.

He knows he was crying just a moment ago.

He knows why.

He’s looking right at him, after all.

He’s face to face with a man who thinks he’s dead, and only his mask over his face stops what would surely turn out to be a tearful reunion. Or a very angry one.

After all, Tim wouldn’t understand why he hasn’t visited him before. He wouldn’t understand why he let him think he’s dead, and on most days he isn’t really capable of telling him, anyway.

His voice box is a fickle thing, really. Much like his mind it can never decide how it is going to work, if it works at all. Some days he can speak loud and clear, with a voice that is no longer his but is still pristine and perfect. Preserved as it was before he died. On others he can speak only in whispers, with a rasp that he loves and hates in equal measures because it obscures his true voice enough to keep his identity secret.

Most of the time, however, it doesn’t work at all. It leaves him silent and unnerving. And when it allows him any form of communication, it is limited to insect-like clicking and animalistic growls and whines.

He hasn’t tested it yet today, but he doesn’t intend to either. Not with Tim here. With his luck his voice will work entirely too well and then he’ll be stuck admitting who he is… No. Who he _was_. Not something he wants to deal with right now.

Besides, the Hooded one wouldn’t be pleased if he got caught out like that.

“Who _are_ you?” Tim demands.

Somewhat resigned, he replies with a series of clicks which only seem to frustrate Tim further. He’s fairly certain the man will just rip the mask off his face at any second, but… He doesn’t. He just settles for looking at him, glaring at him, from about three feet away. They are close enough to touch, and he _wants_ to. He _aches_ for contact with someone who is not the Hooded one. Someone who he does not need to care for and help to keep alive - at least not as literally as he has to with the Hooded one.

Tim did a number on him.

There is a solid thump on the door, preventing either of them from doing anything else. Tim jumps about a foot in the air at the sound, just like he’d jumped about a foot in the air when he’d noticed him watching him at the beginning of this confrontation. He turns to look at the door, obviously on edge.

Not-Jay can’t help himself. He takes a step toward the door, and he finds his voice. Mumbly and scratchy, yes, but still there. “I’ll go first,” He says in that whispery way, amusement tickling him where usually emotion was not present, “I have a death wish.”

He hears Tim’s breath catch. He laughs as he makes for the door.


End file.
